Coalition of the Willing
by GriffinGuts
Summary: The Nine Walkers, the Wardens, and their companions find convergence of purpose and comfort in each others strengths. Male Warden no OCs. Will involve violence, Slash refernces, and outright SLASH. m!Cousland, multiple pairings. Zev? Legs? others?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

From a secure perch, the Prince of Mirkwood observed the company of strangers in the distance. They seemed to have little in common, but were clearly familiar traveling companions. With his sharp eyes he peered through the dappled shade to see the travelers in more detail. Ahead of the main group, a Man with short, dark, unruly curls walked with the strangest Beast on one hand and a surprisingly short Elf on the other. Walking in a loose cluster with an odd assortment of weapons, the party continued toward the grove where the Fellowship had camped.

As they passed under the canopy of trees, the golden Elf was telling some grand tale. He made an expansive gesture and the dark haired Man laughed softly. The Beast ("Is that a Warg!" Legolas exclaimed to himself) gave a sort bark in response to a question from the Elf and the dark haired Man laughed again. Next, a grim-faced Barbarian, (suffering through the chatter of a lovely, quick-stepping Archer), walked next to a gray haired Sorceress who was anything but matronly. Her stride, her staff, and her gaze spoke of power and an inclination to use it. A strange pair followed, heads bent and intent on whatever disagreement they were having. The man ("a 'Knight-In-Shining-Armour' no doubt" Legolas mused) jabbed his finger towards his companion to emphasize a point. This companion was quite the opposite of the 'Damsel-In-Distress' that usually accompanied such knights. Clad in shreds of silk and feathers the Damsel was a dramatic contrast to her Knight. A gnarled wooden staff marked her as spell caster and her manner clearly stated she would not be trifled with.

Momentarily abandoning his examination, he looked at Aragorn below. Legolas doubted the Ranger could see the travelers approach. "Let him wait," the elf thought. "Surely one of the mighty Dunedain does not need warnings from a simple wood-elf." Then, considering the best interest of the Fellowship, Legolas put away his petulant thoughts. They certainly deserved a quiet rest after a long, difficult day. He sent out a quiet whistle; a common trill signaling approaching strangers. It was particularly satisfying to see Aragorn's head snap up as if he'd been stung. Another thought sprang up unbidden; "Ha! He really didn't have a clue they were near. How can someone so dimwitted possibly be the hope of an entire people?" With roll of his eyes, the smug hunter settled back to apply his finely tuned senses to the task at hand.

Legolas slowed his breathing and attempted to absorb everything around him; every step, every jingle of every buckle, every whispered breath. Somehow he knew the exact instant the Beast became aware of them. A flick of the Beast's ear and suddenly the golden Elf knew too; a slight shift in balance and somehow he seemed more sinister than handsome. A half-glance passed between the Elf and the dark haired Man and triggered a chain reaction. The Knight became just a touch too casual, the Archer slightly too merry, the Barbarian imperceptibly more grim. Staves were gripped, shoulders raised, a step back, a step forward; battle positions, but barely noticeable. In a heartbeat the mismatched crew became a coiled spring.

Then, unexpectedly, the Man hailed Aragorn a in deceptively pleasant tone, requesting that he show himself. Too late, Legolas realized that the Ranger had not seen through the party's veneer of nonchalance.

With a frustrated sigh, Legolas scanned the clearing again as he readied his bow. His eyes came to rest on the Elf, who returned his stare. Meeting the impassive gaze, the curious part of Legolas wanted to know the Elf on the other end of those honey colored eyes. However, part of him hoped that a '_breakdown in communication_' would lead to some excitement. After all, following a Hobbit across Arda and listening to Gandalf's constant preaching about the greater good had become decidedly boring.

* * *

><p>Aragorn had always prided himself on his ability to watch without being seen. So, when Legolas sent the note of warning, he trained his eyes on the forest edge and waited, unconcerned. Finally, the travelers came into view. The Boy was not familiar to him, nor was the Elf who followed. He was <em>almost<em> alarmed when they paused some distance away from his hiding place. A sense of unease _almost_ grew in him as he noticed the magi, the strange Beast, ("Is that a Warg!," Aragorn exclaimed to himself), and the Barbarian.

Arranged in the center of the clearing, it seemed as if the party was waiting for something. Aragorn _almost_ paused to consider his course of action, but he had little time for contemplation. To his consternation, the Boy turned to face him in his concealment. They locked eyes and the Boy addressed him boldly, in eloquent but heavily accented Westron.

With a silent prayer that the impetuous and warlike wood-elf above him would have the good grace to remain hidden, Aragorn stepped into the clearing.

* * *

><p>When the hooded stranger strode out of the brush, Zevran watched his Warden with one eye and the canopy with the other. Nothing but a faint shadow on an exposed lower limb told him that someone still lurked above them. With a subtle movement of his fingers and a slightly apologetic expression he informed his Warden of the unseen watcher.<p>

All business, he surveyed the branches more carefully. As his eyes drifted through the leaves they landed on a similarly occupied pair. Somehow, the curious part of Zevran wanted to know who was on the other end of those inquisitive green eyes. "On the other hand, perhaps there will be a '_breakdown in communication_' leading to some excitement," he thought to himself. It had, after all, been several days since he'd killed anyone.

* * *

><p>To Aedan, Fallon's impeccable ears and Zevran's keen eyes left little mystery as to where the watcher was stationed. When Zevran indicated an additional observer was aloft, the Warden couldn't say he was surprised.<p>

Unfortunately, it was obvious that the threat was not Darkspawn. This substantially decreased his desire for a confrontation. Acknowledging to himself that the situation was less than ideal, he looked back at Alistair. Receiving a minuscule shrug in return, the Warden managed to restrain an impulse to scream in frustration. His internal monologue wondered, "Could a day get any worse than an arrow in the shoulder I am only barely able to hide, Alistair and Morrigan bickering for 3 hours straight, and the endless prattle of Leliana trying to get Sten to abandon the Qun?" Aedan was positive that the only things maintaining his sanity were pleasant daydreams about sunny Antiva.

Hoping that it would not make his life any more 'exciting', he stepped forward, turned to face the first watcher and spoke. "I really think you should come out and show us who you are. In the long run it would be easier on both of us, provided there are no breakdowns in communication."

The Warden hoped it sounded more imposing in the Common tongue than it did in his head.

* * *

><p>Notes: This chapter is probably much more light-hearted than subsequent chapters. I expect it will get pretty serious as the two quests start to blend. There will be SLASH or references to SLASH soon, so if you're not okay with that, you will want to bail.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

* * *

><p>I hailed the watcher in my awkward but serviceable Common,"I really think you should come out and show us who you are. In the long run it would be easier on both of us, provided there are no breakdowns in communication." To my relief, the watcher chose to comply.<p>

The man looked like a habitual traveler. The tall leather boots showed miles of wear and were caked in mud. Slowly, he dropped the hood overshadowing his face. The vigilance of my companions let me examine him with my full attention."Tall, dark and scruffy, was the description this man would have if this were a children's storybook." I thought. Tall? Yes. As tall or taller than Alistair, but not as broad. Dark? Yes. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark, travel-stained cloak. Scruffy? Yes. weather-beaten and grim-faced. And armed to the teeth.

All things considered, I would have taken him for a bandit. But he had a keen and commanding look in his eyes and I could not help feeling that this was an honorable man.

An honorable man who was armed to the teeth.

I proceeded. "Would you please ask your arboreal friend to join us?" I was working hard to keep my tone pleasant and my anxiety hidden.

After a slight pause, our second observer dropped from the trees to stand before me. Whip-like and graceful, the man was covered by a short cape that shifted from grey to green without settling on a hue. A deep hood obscured any facial features, but long strands the color of moonlight spilled out of his cowl. From what I could see, he was also armed to the teeth.

"Weapons please. Immediately." The dark one handed over a sleek sword and began pulling an assortment of knives from his belt and underneath his cloak. The hooded watcher passed me a longbow with quiver and a curious bone handled blade somewhere between a sword and a dagger in length. A set of throwing knives, some darts, and matching stilettos from his boot-tops followed. That was everything I could see, but I had no doubt there were more hidden blades.

Now that they were relatively unarmed, I spoke to the hooded one, "Please lay back your hood. I wish to see who I speak with."

The hooded one replied in a light voice tinged with amusement, "I would much rather not."

The dark man stiffened and scowled and I could not quite keep the corner of my mouth from turning up. Beside me, Zevran had one eyebrow raised speculatively. Both Zevran and I looked to Fallon, who gave the hooded stranger a long once-over. Pronouncing the situation acceptable with a snort, she cocked her head and sat down to wait as I crossed my arms over my chest. Alistair took up post just behind my right shoulder and put on his stoic 'Templar face.' He was going to play along, but his eyes said loud and clear that he thought this was a Very Bad Idea.

With half an eye on the mysterious strangers, I motioned quietly to Wynne, "We camp here tonight. See to things. Do it quickly and quietly." I pretended not to feel the pairs of incredulous eyes boring into my back. However, after Fallon's pronouncement that the encounter was under control I knew that Wynne would ignore any open objections.

I'm quite sure the strangers thought I was building suspense by being so abrupt and cryptic, but in truth, I was mostly occupied with trying to stay standing. Long, painful, silent seconds passed before the bare-headed traveler spoke. "I am called Strider. My friend is,..."

He was interrupted when the other man replied loftily, "...Aglar. I am called Aglar." It didn't take a lot of intuition to guess it was not his real name.

Confirmation came when Strider became annoyed and spoke to 'Aglar' sharply in a strange tongue. Though the words were surely intended as a reprimand, the reply from silver-blond was delivered flippantly and in a playful tone. Whatever was said did not improve the mood between the two.

As they spoke between themselves, I shot a comment at Zevran in Antivan, "Well, they are not from Orlais, from their speech or dress. Are they Crows?"

"True, they are not obviously Orlesian." He gestured to Strider. "As for Crows,...I think not. I do not recognize them, and they are far too...bedraggled to be one of my former associates..." a pause accompanied by a shrug, "...but, who can know these things for sure? There are many things they could be, most of which are hazardous to our health."

"Well then, I think we had better find out just how hazardous they are," I replied with a sigh.

"Maybe. Or maybe we could just kill them?" Though framed as a question, this last was delivered in a deliberate tone, with eyes that gave no doubt which course Zevran would prefer. For the millionth time, I was fervently glad that they did not teach Antivan in the Chantry. Alistair up in arms over Zevran's suggestion would have seriously limited my ability to manage the situation.

Having finished their own conversation, Strider and 'Aglar' must have observed the change in our demeanor. They stiffened but remained still. I was saved from an immediate ruling by the approach of Leliana.

"Oh! How lovely! Visitors for dinner. How good of you to invite them!," she exclaimed. Strider's hand leapt toward his absent weapon, but Leliana grabbed his arm before it reached his belt. She pretended not to notice his movement and led him purposefully to the campfire, his arm bent at a subtle angle. Alistair followed menacingly at Strider's other elbow.

Aglar made no move to follow. The hot, sharp pain in my shoulder and the way the world suddenly tilted reminded me how much I needed him to accept our 'invitation.'

My eyes flicked over to Zevran. He could see the plan forming in my mind. With a casual brush of his left palm over his right he signed, "I lead."

"I hear," I replied silently, fingering a lock over my ear.

Zevran stepped quickly behind Aglar's shoulder. "Come, dear Aglar, a feast awaits. I am called Zevran; Zev to my friends," he purred. Aglar cocked his head inside his hood and drifted slightly towards the Antivan.

"Indeed. I am Aedan. Be welcome at our fire," I said in a warm voice, somehow swimming up through my haze of pain and disorientation. I took Aglar's elbow in a firm grip and put on my most charming expression, hiding my exhaustion and discomfort as best I could.

* * *

><p>Aragorn scolded me, "'Aglar'! Really! You name yourself 'Glory?' More like a curse!"<p>

My retort. "You own me not sir Ranger. For you are not _my_ king. I name myself as I choose."

The smelly, disheveled man beside me fumed silently and I congratulated myself on another job well done. Tamping down my glee I spoke more gently, "Can you not see? They are suspicious of us, but hardly about to leap up and chop off our heads." After a moments consideration I added, "Besides, _I_ would be aloft and running long before either could get close enough to chop off _my_ head."

I could scarce contain my merriment at his exasperation! I looked across to the exotic elf. He clearly did not understand the Sindarin words, but the wicked look in his eyes said he understood the game. A stranger still, but a potential partner in mischief all the same.

As we exchanged glances, he was addressing the other's question in a low voice. The language was unfamiliar, but pleasant to listen to. Long, rolling tones interspersed with shorter staccato phrases. Then, the rhythm of the words shifted. He turned to look at the other man, and when his gaze returned, the formerly playful eyes had gone hard. It was not the stare of an eager predator, but that of a brutal pragmatist.

I suppressed a shiver at the sudden change in the golden one. Raised in the Mirkwood with a bow in my hand almost as soon as I could walk, I was no stranger to death. That expression however spoke of imminent harm at close quarters.

I nearly jumped at the appearance of the pretty Archer who had 'amused' the Barbarian on their walk into the glen. Bold as brass she strode up to Aragorn and took him by the arm like an old friend. As she subtly twisted Aragorn's arm into a gentle joint lock and the young knight guided Aragorn to the fire, I decided to remain still. I was sure the 'invitation' to dinner was not optional, but I wondered what the reaction would be if I did not comply.

The elf spoke first, offering his name; 'Zevran.' Something about his accent made that momentarily the most alluring word in all of Arda. So entranced was I that I failed to notice the other man holding my elbow in a strong but not uncomfortable grip. I looked down, and the smile he gifted me with transformed his face. I had thought he was plain, but I was truly mistaken. The unruly mop of dark curls framed a young, smooth face with rosy cheeks. His his gray eyes danced with intelligence and wit.

We advanced a step or two, and suddenly my perception of the young Man at my arm changed. He smelled of blood, lots of it; both fresh and old. The bold smile was forced and rigid. The flushed face was clearly the onset of a fever. His eyes were sparkling not with merriment, but with the delirium of excruciating pain.

'What have we walked into my wayward Ranger?,' I whispered to myself.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: You are so **_very_** vexing!

* * *

><p><em>Brasca! Will this prattle ever end now that it has begun? Let us move on to the bloodletting and so on and so forth.<em>

The Warden was usually not _quite_ so much of a fool. Difficult and impetuous maybe, but generally not moronic. Today however - standing there feverish and bleeding all over himself - he wanted to parley with these mysterious forest people. I stood beside him and did my best to look dangerous while planning an exit strategy and suppressing my irritation.

A dark haired human stepped out of the brush with the air of one who is accustomed to being heard rather than listening.

_Foolish shem. You'll find little deference here._

I looked carefully over him. A barely noticeable hitch in his gait would give an advantage to anyone coming from his left side. His cloak was long and too large. It fell forward over his arms creating enough bulk to encumber him when he reached for his weapon. I was almost certainly faster than he. A short sprint, a low feint towards his weak side and,...

Abruptly the situation shifted as the second watcher dropped from the trees. He would need to be dealt with first. Not only was he nearer, but it was likely from his lighter build and general manner that he could out maneuver me.

The initial advantage would be his as his eyes were concealed within his hood. His probable dexterity and speed would present the greater challenge. But the footing on the forest floor was relatively poor,...and the fall of blond hair...lovely, but too long. A formidable point of leverage if I could take him by surprise. The single blade at his side was something of an impediment though. His reach was longer than mine, so there would be the problem of getting inside his guard.

_But that is, after all, an assassin's speciality; _my_ speciality_.

A distraction then; get him to lunge forward allowing me to grab his hair and pull him onto my blade. - _A clean kill from the front; a knife up under the ribcage and straight to the heart _- Or I would use his momentum and the fistful of locks to swing him around, then slip behind him and pull his head up and back. -_ A messy but more satisfying kill from behind; a blade across the throat _- Then I would push body out toward the other man to distract...

The thought died when the Warden asked for their weapons and an armory began to materialize from the folds of the hooded mans cloak. He traveled with almost as many knives as I did. Interesting. And the darts,...

_We may have extensive common ground my friend._

It must have been an indication of my weariness, but I could not keep my eyebrow from creeping up as that same man refused – albeit politely – to show his face. Our party outnumbered them three-to-one, and we had their weapons.

_This man is very brave or he very much wishes to die today. Either. Or both._

The Warden stood there calmly as names were exchanged and an argument broke out between the two strangers. Unbelievable. This fiasco had continued long enough. I met 'Aglar's' sparkling eyes with a glare. He clearly read it as participation in his _game_ of goading his companion.

Accumulated vexations had gradually worn away my considerable patience and I felt my curiosity slide away. So, when The Warden asked for my opinion on how to deal with strangers, I could not conceal my initial inclination. I was able to modulate it somewhat, but the truth of my intentions was clear. It was truly the most expedient solution.

_And truly it has been too long since my last kill. Indeed, a delightful way to wash away the frustrations of the day_.

In all fairness, the Warden did seriously consider the prospect. But his inner nature was to seek reconciliation rather than to antagonize.

_Except where Darkspawn are concerned. Another point of contention I wish to address with him...someday, when he is less inclined to become petulant and kill me._

The Warden sent me a meaningful glance and I became well and truly cross.

_Pardon me Warden! Another game? At this hour and in your condition? As you command Oh Master._

It was then that I cursed Andraste, the Crows and anyone else who had ever touched my life for allowing me to throw myself at this masochistic Warden with the face of a child, the body of a god, and the tenacity of an Antivan fishwife.

I gazed up into _dear_ Aglar's hood and was again faced with a pair of inquisitive green eyes. A most seductive grin floated across my face as I began to offer the usual platitudes. His eyes went a little soft and there was the suggestion of a half-smile on the shadowed face. Yes, yes, I knew I generally had that effect on people. I had perfected it over the years so that it was as keen a weapon as any in my arsenal. I was confident that I could charm him straight into a coup d'état, a dangerous alley, or – easily enough – an amorous _entanglement_.

_Ah. A pity he will succumb so easily and rob me of an invigorating pursuit...But there is much amusement to be had in this as well, no?_

Maker knew that the Warden's continued resistance had resulted in something of a 'dry spell.'


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: A Terrible Tragedy.

* * *

><p>We proceeded toward Leliana, Zevran continuing his idle banter and clearly enrapturing our visitor. After handing Aglar off to Alistair near the newly lit campfire, I was met by Morrigan who dragged me to a downed log nearby. Content that my other companions had things well in hand, I gave up and let myself be manhandled.<p>

Wynne was occupied with the bustle around camp, but combined, Morrigan and Zevran were competent field healers. The exasperated swamp-witch crouched down next to me and glowered.

"Well? Off with it." She gestured to my breastplate.

Zevran wasted no time in unbuckling the side straps and easing it off over the stump of an arrow protruding from my chest. From where I was sitting, the wound looked fairly straightforward. Rather disappointing considering how much it hurt. "If It's going to be this painful, it should at least be life-threatening or dramatically incurable," I groused.

"It must come out, 'Tis starting to fester" Morrigan said brusquely. I grunted in agreement, but I was not looking forward to this.

With that thought, my mind decided that it was no longer needed, and so it floated off into blissful oblivion.

* * *

><p>It looked far worse than it was.<p>

_Except the fever and slight infection_.

Morrigan joined me and we both looked at the wound and protruding shaft with professional detachment.

"'Tis but a flesh wound. Push it through until the head can be removed. Then extract the remaining shaft from the front," she stated succinctly.

Given that the Warden was well and truly passed out, this was accomplished with little difficulty. Morrigan followed the arrow out with the blue glow of magical healing; perhaps less gentle than Wynne, but just as effective. A simple brew would relieve the fever and keep the Warden insensible for an hour or two.

Morrigan departed, and I leaned the Warden forward to wrap a long bandage around his – _perfect_ – torso. He shifted so that his head lay on my shoulder, his fevered forehead hot against my neck. My hands absently traced the muscular cords running along his spine.

_Enough! Accosting him in his sleep is not the best tool for seduction! Fool._

I tied off the strip of cloth, lowered him and took a deep breath.

My alluring benefactor now cared for, I pulled off the bloodied remains of my shirt to expose a minor wound. Since the Warden was not awake to compel them, I expected no healing hands from the rest of the party. To distract myself from the stitches I was putting into the shallow gash, I directed significant thought to our dinner guests.

Despite the Warden's concern about the craftiness of Arl Howe and Teryn Loghain, I had serious doubts that any part of Ferelden could produce two spies so adapt at hiding their – _Ferelden-ness_ –. Also, they had the intangible feel of those not on familiar soil. Something was just generally strange about them.

I stole half a glance behind me at Leliana, who was blithely conversing with the stoic Strider. They did not seem Orleisian, but, as they say, it takes a thief to catch a thief. Or rather, a bard to catch a bard.

_Or a Crow to catch a Crow...Did I say catch? I meant kill. Yes. That is the proper word._

I was _almost certain_ that they were _definitely_ not Crows,..._mostly_.

I was also _completely sure_ that they were _likely_ not even Antivan,..._probably_.

As I told the Warden, one cannot expect to be infallible in such matters.

* * *

><p>And so, the cordial dinner invitation resulted in two of the most eligible bachelors in Arda perched on pieces of dead fall arranged in a loose circle. A central fire had been built and the Barbarian was tending it while the elderly sorceress sorted through the heap of traveling gear deposited by some sort of large, moving statue. A moving statue. Curious.<p>

At some point as we settled, the large dog-beast had trotted over snuffling, nudging and investigating us thoroughly. It also licked Aragorn soundly about the face and hands. I couldn't completely squelch my chuckle as he swallowed the curses on his tongue and submitted to the moist inspection. The beast then faced us squarely and I had the distinct impression we were being seriously evaluated. Ultimately, the beast flopped down at my feet and chose to rest it's drooling head in my lap. Acceptance then. Curious.

The short muzzle bore a network of tiny scars and there was one ear tip missing. It was smelly, and truly quite homely. But the eyes were inquisitive and intelligent; maybe more so than many Men I had encountered. I whispered softly in Silvan, the language of my homeland; a language which most creatures responded to readily enough.

I began simply, "Hello little one. I am Greenleaf. Are things well with you?"

_A soft reply, a brief greeting faintly feminine. Anxiety. It concerned a Man who was not well. More anxiety and,...guilt?_ Could a dog feel guilty?

"He has friends to help him, look..." I made a gesture in Aedan's direction. "I assure you my lady, his hurt was not serious. He is in no danger. Go check, I will behave until you get back."

A few yards away, across the fire, Zevran and the dark haired enchantress tended Aedan. The process was brief and Aedan had drifted off moments into it. Through the who endeavor, Aedan hadn't moved or even groaned, but as Zevran pulled his torso forward, I saw the young man's sleepy head fall forward onto Zevran's shoulder. The elf briefly cradled the man against himself and absently reached up to stroke the dark curls. When Zevran shifted his position to lay Aedan back, his hand slid gently behind Aedan's neck to guide his head down to the rough bark.

After the young man was settled, I watched Zevran rummage a little in a small traveling kit and proceed to sew shut his own wound with a curved needle. A few small creases furrowed his brow as he sat on his knees and hunched over himself to finish the last of the stitches. He pressed a flat bundle of herbs over the mended flesh and wrapped a long strip of bandage around his middle.

I confess, my eyebrows had risen right into my hairline. From our earlier interactions with this troupe, I had assumed that the elf sat at their leader's right hand. And from the prodigious amount of care Zevran took with the young man's wound, I could guess that the two were fast friends. No,... _more_ than friends. Why then would Zevran be left to tend himself in the aftermath of a skirmish? Curious.

Apparently satisfied with the care Aedan was receiving, the dog resumed her position, placing her slobbering visage in my lap. Vague feelings of worry swirled around her and I expected that these would not completely disappear until her Man was up and around again. But, she was mostly in better spirits. And she was certainly better company than Aragorn on his best day. I obediently rubbed her ears and continued my musings.

"Oh! How sweet! Fallon has really taken a liking to you," the red-haired Archer said gesturing to the sleek beast beside me. The woman's posture relaxed and the feeling that we were prisoners receded substantially. "She is an excellent judge of character."

"Indeed. She is a noble beast and, with surety, a much better ally than enemy," I returned.

We had clearly gained some measure of acceptance from the Archer and Fallon, but the Knight still glared daggers at us. I think he expected us to leap up and steal his dinner or some such nonsense. Although I'd often been told my attempts to seem innocuous made me seem even more tricksy, I tried to radiate harmlessness.

"I'm not sure if everyone will want their tent, the weather is uncommonly good," the Knight said to the Archer.

"This may be true," she replied. Her next statement was directed at the elder mage. "We could share Wynne, Then we need only get out one tent. That's one less thing to unpack."

"That is certainly a practical suggestion my dear Leliana," Wynne replied.

So then; Zevran and Aedan, Fallon, Wynne and Leliana. But these other two, the Knight and the spell caster?

"T'would be more efficient use of your time if you waited for the Warden to wake and determine how long we will use this campsite," The dark, sultry mage commented. As she spoke, she was bending forward to hang a full kettle on a hook suspended over the fire.

Aragorn rose meaning to take the heavy kettle from her. "My lady, please, allow me to,..."

"I? A _lady_!" she scoffed. "_I_ am Morrigan. But you need not trouble yourself with such pleasantries." She turned abruptly and stormed away.

Aragorn stood there with the kettle hanging limply from his fingers. I did not even try to suppress my mirth. His deeply held belief that everyone required his assistance, - even for simple tasks – was completely ridiculous and deserved censure.

"Don't mind her, she's a complete and utter bitch, even on her best days. I'm Alistair," the Knight said in a mellow tenor. He and Aragorn clasped forearms in a warriors greeting. I settled for a dip of the head, in light of my slobbery palms.

Leliana and Alistair then drew Aragorn to a neighboring snag and into a lively conversation about pedestrian topics. To me, the conversation held the subtle undercurrent of an inquisition; they were comparing his answers against a list of suspect responses. They were looking for infiltrators. Spies. Curious.

His ministrations finished, Zevran sauntered in my direction with two earthenware mugs and a small ceramic tea pot. He bent to add water from the large kettle and sat silently while the tea steeped. When Zevran placed a wire strainer over the first mug and began to pour, Alistair raised his voice to comment. "Zevran always takes great care when brewing his potions. Don't drink it, it is most likely some exotic poison." There was no real warrning in his tone, only petty malice.

Without looking up, Zevran shot back, "Would I poison a dinner guest? And openly, in the afternoon sun? You wound me_ so_ Alistair! The proper preparation of this excellent beverage shows my determination to remain civilized in this -_ nation_ – of yours. We are not _all_ uncouth barbarians from the hinterlands."I shared a glance with the golden elf and against my better judgment the corner of my mouth twitched upwards.

Alistair's face reddened and he opened his mouth to reply but he was interrupted by Leliana. "Come now Alistair," she mocked. "_Some_ have delicate constitutions and cannot stand to be deprived of such a decadence. Especially when their masters have sold them off far from home." Her innocent tone could not hide the snide nature of the comment.

"It is too true Leliana." Zevran sighed dramatically. "_Some_ of us would simply _perish_ without sweet smelling soaps and imported cheeses,"he said urbanely, following up with a toothy grin that spoke more of animosity than of amusement.

This time both Leliana and Alistair had the good grace to blush.

Such rancor toward Zevran, the _more-than-friends_ friend of Aedan? Curious.

Finished pouring and straining, Zevran came up from his crouch and moved in my direction. Still angled toward his antagonists, he paused theatrically and took a long sip from one mug before handing it to me. Taking the second mug for himself, he sat next to me, near enough that our knees brushed. I was startled into speaking first.

"I am not Aglar. Call me Legolas."

"Why should I indulge you in this, my friend?," he replied.

"Because it is my name?"

"Then continue to call me Zevran, for _that_ is my name. But,... this you know. Why such deception?"

"Strider and I are both well known in some places, but we do not wish to be known here." I could tell this was not a response he was comfortable with.

Our eye contact broke and he waved toward Leliana and Aragorn. "She will tell him a story. She will strategically gauge his reaction to certain words and phrases, and then probe deeper. See how she strums her lute? The chords she plays are not random; they set the mood, calming and distracting all at once."

The woman in question sat angled toward Aragorn. Her fingers strummed and picked absently at the instrument. Her voice was sweet and the tale was sad. I rolled my eyes slightly once I realized the subject matter. Something about chivalry and a lady who wanted to be a knight,...A very appropriate choice for the wayward prince.

Zevran continued, "This charade creates a feeling of safety, inviting further conversation. She is very good at this. One of the best I have ever seen. It is really just a matter of time before we know who you are."

His words were bland, maybe slightly irritated. I knew his comment was meant to threaten rather than inform. It was true, Aragorn was doing far more listening than talking. An interrogation by observation rather than questioning. Curious.

I could not help but laugh at this slight subterfuge. "Excellent! Since we can be assured that she will glean any and all information about our nefarious deeds, you and I are left to more – _pleasant_ – pursuits." This elf was exceptionally good looking and I sincerely hoped he would engage in some lively flirtation. My thoughts had grown entirely too somber.

There was surprise, but not displeasure in his expression when he responded. "Well then, what _pursuits_ should these be?" His voice was low and sultry.

"Well,...Tell me of your homeland..."

His eyebrows rose, and his face softened slightly. "Oh? You wish to know about Antiva, do you? The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there. It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this one. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom…or so the saying goes,..."

And so our conversation began.

After many stories were exchanged, and the exotic tea long gone, the conversation slowed. I felt the possibility of seriousness descending.

"You are a most interesting creature dear Zevran." My tone was light in an attempt to maintain the casual flow of words between us.

"Interesting? Perhaps. But you are _mysterious_," he purred. "Why do you hesitate to be seen my dear Legolas?"

Made careless by his voice and proximity, the words sprang from my mouth. "I have found my appearance disruptive in the past. Our conversation is now so pleasant and I would not spoil it." When his eyebrows rose questioningly, I added, "Alas, I am considered by most to be uncommonly fair."

I cursed silently. His silver tongue and my lack of wit had fenced me into conversation that I had no choice but to follow to an inevitable end. I was not amused.

"I see, I see. So, what,...calamities,...have come from this terrible curse you bear my friend? If you are indeed so painfully handsome, you can have whatever, - or _whomever_ - you want, no? This must have,...at some time,... been worthwhile," he crooned.

"It is sometimes so. My bed is rarely empty unless I wish it; gifts, proposals, women, men, whatever I like and whenever. I am welcomed in the highest social strata. I am a admired and treasured. Something won and lost. Hunted; many times, the object of wagers between hunters."... I hesitated, that last had recently been a source of some hurt,..."Often, there is great animosity. I hold the attention of many who would otherwise be drawn elsewhere. I cause controversy wherever I go. There are only so many variations in such games and only so much amusement to be had with such flirtations,...Over time it has become exhausting,...and lonely."

"Ah. I understand you. But surely in a few short decades you will be relieved of your burden? Some _do_ age gracefully, but even they cannot indefinitely compete with young, fresh faces. Are you not consoled by the idea that your beauty will someday fade?"

His tone was earnest, and there was no trace of mockery in it. Having examined his handsome features and well formed physique, I concluded that he had shared many of my experiences. I decided that he did, indeed, understand.

But I found I could only respond with a short, bitter laugh. "No, it will not fade, never in hundreds of thousands of years will it fade."

There was a thoughtful pause. Then, "I think we can hardly continue without an examination of your fearful visage, no?"

At my reluctant nod, Zevran slid from his seat to hover in front of me. Feather light, his palms brushed over my hair while he gathered the fabric and leaned toward me to push it back. The hood settled around my shoulders. Suddenly, all activity around the fire ceased. Alistair dropped the greaves he had been polishing and I heard a mumbled oath from Aragorn. Leliana gasped aloud. Even the formerly uninterested Morrigan had turned to stare openly.

"...and so I have just become the ogre in the room, so to speak," I said softly, groping for any trace of my usual levity.

Zevran remained very still, his eyes never leaving mine, his expression unreadable. With the hint of a smile he tipped my chin up and turned my face from side to side in clear examination. I saw in him a blatant appreciation for my form, but not the awe or outright lechery I had occasionally encountered. He sank into a crouch and rocked back on his heels. One finger tapping his perfectly pursed lips and eyebrows drawn up in a pondering expression he leveled a glance at me; a devious grin and a slow wink.

"Yes, yes. This tragedy of your beauty is very great. Very tragic. Do you feel compelled to weep?" The grin went from devious to wicked, and I couldn't help but smile back.

He raised his voice to shout grandly across the now silent campsite, "My dearest Wynne! Our new friend Legolas is heartbreakingly beautiful. It is terrible and it makes him sad. May he rest his head in your bosom? He wishes to cry."

Wynne answered with an exasperated oath. She turned and walked directly away from the fire muttering and shaking her head.

My laughter was irrepressible and after a time, I felt moisture collect at the corners of my eyes. I did not know if they were tears of mirth or tears of gratitude brought on by Zevran's unexpected gesture of fellowship.


	5. Chapter 5

Notes: I won't be in the habit of leaving these notes, but I feel like I should warn you... I may have to switch to a third-person voice (as Ch1). If I do, I will go back and revise the first few chapters to make them match.

I think this one will begin a string of short chapters following eachother closely. We'll see.

* * *

><p>I woke unpleasantly. My head was pounding and the taste in my mouth told me that I had been drugged into a stupor by Morrigan. The uncomfortable itching along my ribs and shoulder told me that the witch and the health poultices had done their job – I would be tender for a few days, but the hole had been dammed. My bleary vision had just sharpened when it came back to me,...the strangers from the woods. I groaned at the new complication. Blessed Andraste, what next?<p>

After further thought, I realized that some of the itching was related to my current state of cleanliness. I was disgusting. My shredded and crusted shirt had been removed during the treatment of the arrow wound but the rest of me remained untouched. I rolled to my side and ran a hand through hair matted with sweat and gore. Maker I was foul. Maybe, just maybe, if I was sneaky enough, I could escape my nurses and remedy my situation.

Surreptitious, I looked for Wynne who was probably watching me for signs of stirring. My gaze traveled across the campfire, landing briefly on the card game Leli had drawn Alistair and Strider into. Things seemed well in hand there. If nothing else, Fallon had clearly signed off on it.

My ferocious war-hound was currently propped at the feet of the hooded stranger where constant scratching of her closely cropped ears had her in ecstasy. She gave an almost disappointed groan as my intent to get up became clear. She faithfully trotted over, and gifted me with a mournful look and a hasty wet kiss.

Wynne was not immediately obvious, and I felt a window of opportunity opening. From my side, I rolled to my belly and rose slowly like and old man; using Fallon to leaver myself up to my hands and knees, then shakily to my feet. I moved toward the pile of gear, hoping to sneak a clean shirt,... but I heard a rustle behind me. I turned to find Wynne, arms crossed menacingly, but slightly smiling. She handed me a towel and a bar of soap, motioning towards my pack, where I found a clean and shirt and mysteriously mended trousers.

I began to shuffle across the campsite and caught Zevran's playful gaze. He took time from his conversation to ogle me, as if I was remotely appealing in my current state, and then shot me a leer. A raised eyebrow asked if I needed any help with my ministrations. I had just enough spare energy to roll my eyes in acknowledgement, and mouth a silent 'No.' He returned a wounded glance, poking out his lower lip in an overly dramatic pout. Incorrigible. Of course, my weary smile could only serve to encourage him.

Continuing to slip away, I headed with all the haste I could muster towards the running creek that made this campsite so desirable. Evidence of many footprints along the narrow path told me that my companions had all had their turn at the slice of Heaven that was cleanliness. Silently I thanked them because being last meant I could take as long necessary. Possibly eternity.

I hissed as the frigid water climbed up my body, wading in past waist height. Then I began to scrub. I was sure that an entire layer of skin was being pulled away as the coating of grime came loose. Itchy. It made me almost wish I had taken Zevran up on his offer of company. He could at least scrub my itching back. And maybe rub my aching back. Speaking of backs,... I got a distracted momentarily by the vision of water sliding down that perfect, tanned torso and running off that perfect, golden backside,...But it was no good. I had no reserves left to act on any impulses tonight.

But I really, really wanted to.

The question of Zevran was one for another day though. Submerging myself one last time, I crept slowly out of the water. I gingerly eased my thin cotton shirt over my tender, freshly scrubbed skin.

It couldn't be said that I had a spring in my step, but I was certainly more optimistic then I had been a few hours ago. My Wardens intuition said that there was a big kettle of something hanging over the fire. It was likely tasteless muck, but that mattered little, as long as there was a lot of tasteless muck.

With that in mind, I wandered back towards the fire. Then I heard Zevran's proclamation. As Wynne strode huffily past me towards the woods, peals of silvery laughter drown out Zevran's throaty chuckle. It floated out towards me. No malice or mockery. Just the sound of breathless amusement; clear and joyful. Beautiful.


End file.
